


My Bees [fic]

by Shuryū Yūin (Caeslin)



Series: The Law of Bees - Fic [1]
Category: Bürgerliches Gesetzbuch
Genre: Cultural Authenticity, Falling In Love, Hunt ones property, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 02:00:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2331077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caeslin/pseuds/Shury%C5%AB%20Y%C5%ABin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"§ 961 Bees become wild bees when they leave you, if you keep up with them, they stay your bees."</p><p>This is a story that you can never tell at <i>Kaffeeklatsch</i>. This is base and odious, and you know, but oh, you cannot, could never, feel shame. This is a story about Bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Bees [fic]

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [My Bees](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2319668) by Anonymous. 



> The expressions in italics cannot be rendered in English without destroying the poetry and cultural nuance of their original German context, and as such I have taken the daring choice of leaving them untranslated. Enterprising souls may look to the internet for approximations of their meaning, but know that these are no substitute for the original.

You knew, you knew ever since first beholding their midnight luminescence in the _alpenglow_ of the mewling newborn dawn, that day of poison and promise that would blossom for you like a virgin rose of such agonizing subliminity that nothing, not _alzheimer's disease_ , not the icy cackle of mortal fallibility, not even mere human dereliction, would ever take from you:

You knew that they were yours.

It's funny, funny and cruel, the pinnacle of paradoxical _angst_ : the workings of the feeble sapian cardiovascular. How the _anschluss_ of your soul into another's domain might occur more swiftly and irrevocably than the famished ingestion of an _apple strudel_ by a feckless youth. How you might live your life in a parade of endless gunmetal dawns and dusks, oppressive in their menial monotony, disquieting in their desperate desolation -- and then one day to wake from your coma of _aspirin_ and opium, to find that you have a heart, a soul, a life outside your life. Your _aufeis_ breast has been mercilessly melted, your eyes have been wrenched open with the force of a tempest, and in front of you is nothing but warmth and light.

There are eight of them. Eight perfect aureate bodies. Eight sets of mighty stygian stripes. Your heart races upon an _autobahn_ of color and radiant lustre, no time for brunches at the _automat_ or trips to the laundrette; your life is a _bildungsroman_ , a novel that focuses on the maturation of, and the intellectual, psychological, or spiritual development of the main character, and now, oh now, it has just begun.

They _blitz_ effervescently through the air like jet-propelled cherubim. It would take a _blitzkrieg_ to capture them, but surely it is a crime to cage such inestimably resplendent creatures. 

It is a crime, but oh, you want, you want, you want. 

You have never been an exalted being; you are base in both your qualities and your lowly appetites, for sodium and dry earth, for _bratwursts_ and beekeeping. The _cobalt_ sky rumbles its heavenly disapproval of your inclement ways, but it cannot stifle you, any more than you can resist coveting these apid treasures, oh no! This is a story that you can never tell at _Kaffeeklatsch_. This is base and odious, and you know, but oh, you cannot, could never, feel shame.

You think in this moment, when everything is spread before you like a honeyed feast of souls, that you are the _concertmeister_ of your fate. 

How can you not foresee? In the future, when you are contorted in the paradoxical paroxysms of the _Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease_ that is your powerless, pitiful life, you will wonder how you could have been so tragicomically blind as to your own foibles.

But you are blind. You do not foresee. And there is no benign _daschund_ , no flocculent feline to _degauss_ your eye and appetite from the prize that bewitches you now.

_Oh bees. My bees._

This is your folly! You think they are yours alone, but they will never be yours, no more than the sun gleaming in the milky sky is your sun, no more than the _deli_ where you purchase sustinence is your _deli_ or the mighty _diesel_ engine of the locomotive which ferried you to this picturesque spot is your train. You are a patron, but not a proprietrix, never that.

This is what love does to you. This euphoric concupiscent delirium.

You gaze at the eight owners of your heart. You are like a young _dirndl_ in the throes of her first aching, excstatic flush of youthful fruit. No, that is painting you far too generously. You are like a _doberman pinscher_ in darkest appetite.

You want.

You need.

And yes -- yes. You love.

It is no _doppelgänger_ who grabs the net in slippery hands. It is not the _doppler effect_ that sees you hoisting it in your feeble, emasculated arms. Oh, you are _dreck_! But you are also a god. You are Zeus in all his stormy splendor, you are Odin on his throne of beasts. 

The _edelweiss_ wings of your lovers beckon you, a bewitching siren on _ersatz_ waves of grass. You gleefully shipwreck yourself upon them. Your heart is a thousand degrees _fahrenheit_ , hot enough to burn, scald, evaporate.

Oh, what _Fahrvergnügen_!

They cannot escape the net. They are too pure. It is the same seraphic innocence that makes them so utterly, heartbreakingly intoxicating to you.

You would throw a _fest_ , if it wouldn't get you such _flack_ , if the mere conept of celebrating your splendid newfound acquisition with _frankfurters_ and party hats like some lavish _Führer_ did not fill you with such obscene revulsion.

You will not throw a _fest_. All that you need is here, glimmering and gold.

_My bees. My bees. My bees._


End file.
